


She's the tear in my heart (I'm alive)

by craploadsofawesome



Category: Teenage Bounty Hunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst and Humor, Dueling, F/F, F/M, Happy Ending, Homoeroticism, Inspired by Romeo and Juliet, Mentions of Masturbation, Small Towns, Swordfighting, come for the love story stay for the swords!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26562202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craploadsofawesome/pseuds/craploadsofawesome
Summary: Sterling looks at her, a little out of steam after her declaration, and April wants to laugh. She imagines pressing on that urge physically with her arms, throwing it onto the ground and stamping on it until it’s completely buried, as she so often must around Sterling. Sterling brings out the strangest feelings in her, feelings that are frustration, fury, amusement, and sometimes, only sometimes, almost soft. Fond-ish. Tender adjacent.“The meaning,” her sister Blair says, stepping out from behind her, cloaked in darkness “is that in thirty days, she will stab you through the heart and you will die.”(And there you go. All feelings except annoyance, gone)“You do realize most duels end in the loser leaving town with stab injuries and not, you know, dying, right?”“We thought it was more dramatic that way,” Sterling admits, sheepish.The completely bonkers Western AU with swords and dueling and Sterling and April as small town Romeo and Juliet. Did I mention there are swords? Because there are swords.
Relationships: April Stevens/Sterling Wesley, Bowser Simmons/Yolanda, Miles Taylor/Blair Wesley, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, honestly, this came out of my deep and intense love of swords and lesbians and lesbians with swords so honestly? Just. Yeah.

Someone tells the story of two girls who meet, fall in love, and spell doom for each other. 

The man stands behind a tree. He is not really a man, of course, just wearing the skin of one. Is this what it takes, he thinks, to build a person? Is the blood rushing through his veins evidence of humanity? Does it make him worthy of a woman’s love? Does donning a mask come equal to all those years of feeling and hurting and aching inside? 

He is digressing. 

The man stands behind a tree and watches the world spill over in front of him. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below the cliff is a good backdrop to the scene. Miles and miles of bare land. Mountains blurring into the fading dusk. The wind screaming a mournful song as though it is preparing for what is to come. And on the edge, stand four figures. Heads bowed; swords drawn. 

One of them does not get to go home tonight. 

*****

If you ask someone in the village how it all started, they may give you one of three answers. Most stories are that way. You know where it ends; you might even, with minimal effort, piece together a clumsy middle. It is where it’s supposed to begin that’s the problem. _Was this where it_ — _oh no, remember,_ _that thing happened and then_ — _listen, all_ _of this comes down to that_ _time_ — and so on and so forth. There are always at least three separate points where a stranger could have intervened, said “Hey, man, that ain’t cool”, invited one of the participants for a day out on the water, and avoided the entire godawful mess. 

But real life, unfortunately doesn’t work that way. 

(And what a tragedy. Imagine a random onlooker taking you out on a boat for an hour right before you say or do something so ridiculously stupid that the narrator is forced to get up from their chair, slam a fist against the wall and sweep papers from their desk in reaction to how absolutely idiotic you are) 

So, yes. The beginning. 

*****

One version, about one third of the population theorize, starts when Sterling Wesley walks into Brandy Hunter at happy hour and announces that she’s going to end April Stevens’ life in a week’s time. 

Now, you’ve been there, haven’t you? Someone pisses you off, you piss them off, they swagger into your favorite bar, stepping onto the creaky floorboard in the process, shove aside your favorite henchman, and announce your impending doom. Nothing to blink twice at. 

April does blink twice, though. “What is the meaning of this?” 

Sterling looks at her, a little out of steam after her declaration, and April wants to laugh. She imagines pressing on that urge physically with her arms, throwing it onto the ground and stamping on it until it’s completely buried, as she so often must around Sterling. Sterling brings out the strangest feelings in her, feelings that are frustration, fury, amusement, and sometimes, only sometimes, almost soft. Fond-ish. Tender adjacent. 

“The meaning,” her sister Blair says, stepping out from behind her, cloaked in darkness “is that in thirty days, she will stab you through the heart and you will die.” 

(And there you go. All feelings except annoyance, gone) 

April raises her hand, opens her mouth. Closes it again. Repeats the action a couple of times until she can find something coherent to say that isn’t _Wow_ , _Um_ , _Sterling, you look very pretty, but what in the name of God are you doing right now_ , or just throw her a look that is essentially a couple of question marks put together. She looks around the bar, at the regulars, and a man she’s never seen before but who she assumes has the same capacity for gossip that the others have. Word travels fast. Especially in a place like this. Especially when it comes to the Wesleys and the Stevens. 

“You do realize most duels end in the loser leaving town with stab injuries and not, you know, dying, right?” 

“We thought it was more dramatic that way,” Sterling admits, sheepish. 

A mouth opens. Closes. The owner of said mouth is completely done. 

“Do you know what you’re asking, Sterling?” April hates the way her voice automatically softens as it reaches her name. Like she is completely incapable of saying her name with anything besides care. Incapable of doing anything besides gently placing her name on a shelf, dusting it off and admiring it from afar, when all she wants to do is chuck it hard, as far as it will go. “You want to challenge me to a duel a month from now? With the condition that whoever loses must leave this place behind, leave their family behind and never return?” 

Sterling takes a deep breath. “I do.” 

“And you are aware that I have fought and won three duels previously while you have zero experience in the area?” 

Blair rolls her eyes. Sterling nods again. 

April snaps her fingers once, then twice when there is no response. “Ezequiel?” 

(Damn the boy. They had practiced this multiple times) 

“Right, sorry,” he says, pulling out his phone. 

“You don’t remember the rules?” she hears Hannah whisper to him, and sighs. Absolute blights on the concept of sidekicks. 

(If that thought comes out fond as well, nobody has to know) 

“Okay,” he starts. “Let it be known that today, as the sun sinks, Sterling Wesley has challenged April Stevens to a sword fight next month, on this very day. As per the rules of dueling, there will be swords, there will be blood, and there will be dra—” 

Everyone in the bar groans. 

“—drama,” he glares at everyone in return. “Sterling, who is your second in command?” 

Blair steps forward into the light and strikes a pose. “That’d be me.” 

(Dear reader, if in case you were wondering what it is with everyone in this town and overall flair, the narrator has no idea either. They, like everyone else, set up house here in hopes of living a quiet life and somehow eventually got sucked up in theatrics. It’s a vortex. It’s a tornado. It’s—) 

(It’s Atlanta. Everyone’s a little bonkers here. It’s just in the air) 

“April?” 

“I haven’t decided yet,” she replies. “You will know soon enough.” 

A man shifts to her right, and she looks at him. It’s the stranger from before, the one she doesn’t remember seeing here. He’s staring at her intently. It’s a little unnerving. 

“Problem?” she asks, after a minute of that. 

“Just trying to figure something out,” he says, haltingly, like the words are an effort to piece together and present in a way that make sense. 

“Do it somewhere else then,” she snaps, and looks back at Sterling again. April walks forward, slowly, like she’s right in front of her, looking up at her face from close quarters. Extends a hand, waits for Sterling to hold it in her own then leans forward until they’re right up in each other’s personal space. 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she says, under her breath, low enough that only the two of them could hear it. Sterling shivers, and April wants to lean into her even more and press her nose right against her cheek. Wants to do impetuous things like bury her face in Sterling’s hair and breathe in that godawful (intoxicating, dizzying) mixture of vanilla and something a tad bit spicy. The tiny April that lives beneath her chest, the one that she lets out only at night, is screaming incessantly in the background, panic somehow taking the shape and form of Sterling’s name. Is screaming at the feel of Sterling’s soft hand in hers, at the electricity that her skin radiates. 

“I’m about as sure as you were when you had your people attack my mother’s boyfriend.” 

April wants to shake her head and say _no, I absolutely have not_ _done that_ _, I have no idea who did_ , but she stays quiet. Not like it’ll make a difference, anyway. 

“Well then,” she says, stepping back and letting go of her hand. The loss stings. “May the best woman win.” 

(The narrator waits for an aspiring fisherman to turn up. It doesn’t happen) 

*****

As it has been mentioned before, most stories have multiple inciting incidents, points just before someone strikes a match, drops it in the middle of a forest, and says, most unconvincingly “Oops”. Most stories also have multiple people stuck in the forest when it happens, people who will spend the rest of the story running about, clutching each other in panic and trying their very best, generally to put it out. And then you have your witnesses. Ordinary people who will look at the wildfire with mild interest, then go home and tell their spouses about it. 

One such man turns to the woman sitting next to him, and asks what the point of all the fuss was. 

“Are ya new here, old boy? Never seen you before.” 

He tells her he’s in town to run Yogurtopia for a bit, as his relative has fallen ill, and needs someone to take care of the place. 

(There is a Yogurtopia, of course, and the original proprietor had, in fact, fallen ill and sent word to the son of a distant cousin to help him out. As it so happens, a month later, after the entire thing is over, the man will wonder why the man doesn’t look anything like what his cousin had described his son as, will wonder why he didn’t ask for any pay, or why, every time he thinks of him, everything is fuzzy around the edges, like his memory is having trouble pulling up his face or his voice) 

(But, ah, that’s life, isn’t it? Growing old is a game of Russian Roulette. You don’t get to pick the memories that will stay) 

“So it’s like this, see? The smaller one? April? Her father messed with the taller girl’s family. Well, to be honest, the taller girl’s mother is mixed up in some real shady business, but then again, that’s the Wesleys and the Stevens for ya. Point is, a woman got murdered and that,” she waves a hand around for emphasis “led to this.” 

He must look confused, because she pats his shoulder playfully. 

“Ah, don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it soon enough. Two families. Different set of values. Some old-ass political feud. And stuck in the crossfire, these two idiots.” 

He still does not understand, but he nods slowly. The woman is making this much of an effort to explain things to him. He doesn’t want to bother her further. 

“Thank you,” he says. “For telling me all that.” 

“Well, who better to tell the story of this town than the Sheriff, eh?” 

He mulls that over. “If you are the local Law Enforcement, why didn’t you stop any of that?” 

She looks at him for a second, and then bursts out laughing. It’s almost shocking in its intensity, in the way it makes the dim room light up around her for a moment. Everything’s a little lighter, a little brighter somehow. 

(The man feels a tiny nudge in his chest, like someone knocked gently at a door even though they already had the keys) 

“I’m Yolanda,” she informs him, after she’s done telling him that it’s a long story. 

He nods politely at that. 

“What’s your name?” she asks again, after there seems to be no forthcoming response. 

He almost tells her he doesn’t have one, because nobody has ever called him willingly. Almost. 

“Bow,” he says. “Ser. Bowser. My name is Bowser.” 

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Bowser.” 

Someone who is almost a man meets a woman in a bar, and that’s how another story starts. 

*****

The narrator sits in a chair, blows out cigar smoke, coughs violently and says that if you go far back enough, one could argue that it began when Debbie Wesley’s great-grandfather fell in love with John Stevens’ married great-grandmother and made an inappropriate pass at her. Turned out Wesleys had no game, first and foremost, and the townspeople found out just how bad a man’s punch hurts when delivered under the belt. Or maybe it was two generations after that, when both Debbie and John ran for town mayor and the former won by a narrow margin, thus forming an ideological divide in the town council, resulting in an even greater number of physical attacks on people belonging to either side. Or maybe it was when the woman who had run with John for Mayor was killed and John had his men burn up a Cokehead’s house instead. 

(With all of these absurd things having happened in the same town, was it any surprise that its citizens had developed an inclination towards theatrics as a coping mechanism? Really, who could blame them?) 

It’s been stated before that this is probably the third possible beginning of the story. However, the narrator would be to bring up another point. Does it really matter how a story begins? 

Okay, so maybe they’re being philosophical. Of course, it does. But it certainly is not the most important thing now, is it? Something happens, a girl is pushed into the line of fire as an unwilling soldier sacrificed to a battle she did not sign up for. Something happens, a girl gets hurt. Something happens, girl meets girl. They fall in love. 

And no, no enterprising stranger invites anyone out for a boating trip either, just in case you were still wondering about that. 

*****

This, Sterling realizes, is the difference between Debbie and Dana. 

Dana hugs her after she comes back from the bar, her legs shaking from the adrenaline. She moves her hair back, smiles at her and asks her what she’d like to eat for dinner tonight. _Your_ _favorite, okay?_

Debbie slaps her. 

The sound is harsh in the utter silence of their home, and Sterling has about one second to breathe out before she’s being engulfed in the tightest hug ever. If she can even call it a hug, that is. Seems more like a drowning man’s attempt at holding on to the last life raft, and she’s the life raft in question. Debbie shakes violently, and for a minute, she thinks that her mother is laughing (she only calls Debbie aunt when Dana is around) until she realizes. Until the sound of the first sob hits her ears and then she feels her dad and Blair’s arms wrap around the both of them. She moves her hand around until it finds Blair’s, and that right there, having her twin (in all but name) stand beside her is enough to reassure her. 

(In an equally huge house all the way over on the other side of town, unknown to Sterling, April Stevens’ is watching her father walk around and talk about his plans for the Wesley’s destruction. She faintly registers his dictum that she put out the word that he himself will be her second in command for the duel. _With the daughter out of the way,_ he says _,_ _we will break_ _down the current regime like a house of cards_ _._ She nods at that) 

But Sterling is not thinking about that at the moment. What she thinks instead is that she’ll have dinner with her family before she has to go home. 

It makes things marginally better. 

*****

The man (Bowser, Bowser, he thinks) tells John Stevens he does not want any trouble. 

(Readers, have you ever been made to be nice to a pesky ant, to request that it not bite you in spite of the overwhelmingly glaring truth that if need be, you could crush it in your palm? Probably not. That is a ridiculous thing that couldn’t possibly happen to anyone. And yet, Bowser felt that way while doing it. It was not an enjoyable feeling) 

“Oh, no trouble, my man,” John forces out a laugh. “Just here to talk to Blair Wesley. We’re both supposed to be lieutenants, after all, aren’t we?” 

Yolanda stands warily in the corner, her eyes not straying from Jon one minute. “This ain’t your territory, Mr. Stevens.” 

(Bowser thinks that she looks very capable of handling herself at any given moment, against petty criminals, or narcissistic power-hungry men. However, he also wishes to tell her that she doesn’t need to be on guard when he’s around. He wouldn’t let anyone touch her) 

(Oh, when someone who is almost-but-not-quite a man feels something in his chest turn over for the very first time, it is a fearsome thing to behold) 

John throws his hands up, swaggers to the door. “Far be it from me to bother the patrons of this lovely establishment,” the word lovely is flung out there. “Just wanted to let Ms. Wesley here know that there is no way my daughter is ever losing. Her cousin may as well start packing right now.” 

And then he’s gone. 

Bowser blinks once, twice, and then Blair lunges for the still swinging door, he assumes, in an attempt to grab the very irritating man who just left. And well, then, he can imagine. A public debacle. Angry words hurled around. Maybe physical violence. 

(In summary, this would end up becoming The Tangential Story of John Stevens and Blair Wesley, and that’s not what you guys are here for, is it? You are here to read about two idiots who fall in love) 

Schrodinger's Cat is a theory that, in essence, talks about how a cat in a box may be both dead and alive at any point in time, unless you open it up to see it for yourself. If Blair had gone out of the door, in a parallel universe, the story would have turned out quite differently. A crossroad doesn’t actually become a crossroad until you’ve already made your way to one path, hit a dead end, and then wandered back to all other choices you could have made. Also, you’re probably wondering about said choices while you’re being chased down by an angry dog. Or a crypid. 

The point is, Blair doesn’t make it out of the door. Because a boy who was quietly minding his own business, eating the rainbow sprinkles off his treat, steps in front of her, grabs her by the shoulder, and looks her right in the eye as he says this: 

“Hi. I don’t know you, but you see very angry right now and my mama always says that anger is the worst affliction in the world to be walking around with. Except maybe diarrhea. Not that diarrhea’s relevant right now, but, yes. Bad idea. Could I maybe interest you in a boat ride with me instead?” 

Everyone in the store stares. 

“I’m Blair,” the girl says, a little dazed. 

The boy smiles at her brightly. “I’m Miles.” 

*****

April knows how to keep secrets. 

Oh, she’d be dead if she didn’t. If her father ever got to find out about her, how to say this, proclivity towards pretty girls with smiles that could melt rock, she would not just be homeless. Wandering around the village haunting random people more like. She knows how to keep her eyes down and sing ABBA songs in her head while he goes off into rants of the most homophobic, misogynistic crap anyone has ever spouted in their miserable Southern, Republican lives. This form of hiding is not foreign to her. 

The other kind, the kind that involves pretty girls with smiles that could melt rock, or Sterling Wesley, in lesser words, is. 

April hides from her father because she does not want to be seen by him. She doesn’t know how to hide from Sterling because whenever they’re around, every cell in her body aches to be seen and known. 

There’s the flush in her cheek screaming _You make looking you in the eye extremely difficult_ , the pounding in her chest that seems loud enough to be heard by the entire town saying _Sterling, Sterling, can you hear this? I don’t know why but it keeps singing your name over and over a_ _gain_. There are her trembling hands that long to pin Sterling to the wall and kiss her until they can’t remember their own names, and her shaking legs. 

That said, Sterling’s posture is so bad that she absolutely cannot help it when she calls out from above her: “Wrong!” 

The girl below the tree on which she is currently perched looks around, adorably confused, before she finally looks up and sees her. 

“How long have you been here?” 

“Long enough to tell you that you’re going to lose.” 

Sterling pouts, and April stifles a smile, climbing down, until they’re in front of each other. 

(The narrator is duty bound to let you know that April really, really hates their height difference, sometimes) 

“I’m a dead shot,” Sterling whines. “Why do we have to duel with swords anyway?” 

April laughs at that. “I didn’t know you wanted to shoot me.” 

“No!” Sterling gasps, face changing to horror, as though the very thought of it is painful. “I didn’t mean that.” 

“Eh, I’d understand if you did. Esteemed rivals and whatnot.” 

And then April’s pounding heart completely stops in her chest, because Sterling holds her right shoulder, and leans down so they’re level. 

“But I really don’t want to hurt you,” she tells April, solemnly, like Sterling wants her to believe that. Like it matters to her. April lets the words wash over her, closes her eyes, and pretends they’re in a different world where everything is different. 

“Okay,” she nods, quickly, because Sterling’s face is right there, and April does not trust herself. If this goes on any longer, she will do something stupid. Like kiss Sterling. Or pass out. Or kiss Sterling and pass out. 

Sterling steps away, and it is easier to breathe. April hates it. 

“Tell me what I’m doing wrong.” 

“You want the girl you’re going to be dueling to teach you how to handle a sword? Come on.” 

“Yeah!” 

April frowns at her, because smiling fondly is unquestionably not an option. “Anyone ever told you you’re very annoying?” 

“You have, on multiple occasions” Sterling says. “Hey — wait, where are you going?” 

Walking away, April allows herself to smile as Sterling’s voice, along with the sound of her footsteps follow her. She walks just fast enough for a certain girl to be able to keep up. 

“April, there is no escape!” 

*****

The narrator tells the story of this town. They talk about how at any point in the day, there is a good chance you might find a boy and a girl going on dates in a boat. You might walk into a yogurt shop and find someone who is trying very hard to be a man looking at a woman like she makes the concept of humanity as a whole, worthwhile. And if you wander down to the woods, you may even find two girls bickering over everything and nothing, going about falling in love the wrong way. 

(Then again, is there really a right way to fall in love?) 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay! I hope you guys like it!

In a world full of rapidly changing events and people, the only eventuality one can take for granted is that when things are going well, life will jump out from behind a street corner and kick you as hard as it can, right in the face. 

Life is a little bitch that way. 

Bowser doesn’t deserve all the bad rap he gets. Death is simple and uncomplicated. No drawn-out episodes with inane plot twists included. No dragging on of shitty character redemption arcs. No terrible metaphors filling up a below-par script. To live is to wake up each day and face the sun knowing that there is pain in store for you. To die is to fall sleep once. 

Well, take the woman for example. She got killed and Bowser ended up here in a town full of insane people whose only redeeming quality is that they harbor an angel among them. 

“So I’ve heard you’re pretty — into — our Sheriff here, huh, Bowsy?” Blair waggles her eyebrows at him over the counter. He thinks _I could pick you up and throw you so hard_ _that you land_ _in the middle of the lake_ , and discovers, mild amazement seeping in, that there is a layer of warmth coating every word in his head. 

(Also he wonders — whatever is _into_ supposed to mean? Yolanda is the reason he was created. The reason all of them were. There is no other God besides the light in her eyes, no other heaven than the cadence of her voice) 

(He supposes that might be an astute way of summing it up – Yes, he’s into her) 

“Is it that obvious?” he asks, curious. 

“Not to the untrained eye, buddy,” she answers, resting her cheek on her hand and pasting the most obnoxiously dreamy look on her face. “But to someone like me who is in the process of falling in love, and with a very handsome boy at that? Yeah, I can see it.” 

(No hell other than whatever Blair and Sterling Wesley have got going on) 

And that’s another thing that’s taken him by surprise. Two girls who have adopted him as their personal pink polka-dotted beanbag, to sit all over and to spread their personal drama over. Death has friends now. Friends who have made it their mission to eat every flavor of yogurt in Yogurtopia for free, while they wide-eye-earnest-expression their way out of trouble. 

Bowser hates them. They make life better. 

Blair is here today, or so she claims, to recruit him to some sort of recon she wants to be doing. It involves the woman who died. Bowser can tell her the answer to most of the questions she’s been shooting at him in an attempt to go over it herself, and yet, he cannot, because apparently _Her spirit told me on the way to the Afterlife_ wouldn’t be an adequate explanation. Usually her sister would be here talking it through with her but Bowser guesses the threat of eviction must have her practicing the sword somewhere. 

“Where’s the other one?” 

“Oh, Sterling?” Blair answers. “Probably off in the woods either killing April or kissing her, it’s anyone’s guess, really.” 

He says “What?” before he realizes that a, that’s going to open a can of worms nobody wants opened at peak naptime, and b, while Blair unimpressed was terrifying enough on her own, Blair enthusiastic was a force to be reckoned with and this, this was something she was definitely an expert on. 

“Oh Bowsy,” she tells him, settling in better on her chair. “Surely you know she’s in love with April. Sterling’s always been sort of half in love with April her entire life.” 

***** 

“How do you challenge someone to a sword fight and not even know how to hold a sword properly?” 

“I know how to hold a sword!” 

“You do not flourish it. You do not brandish it. You hold it. Why does everything have to involve so much drama with you people?” 

“Oh my God, don’t be such a hater!” 

Deep breaths. “I’m just trying to teach you how to—” 

“Like this?” 

“Grip firm.” 

“This?” 

“Oh dear, okay, wait.” Stepping behind Sterling. Holding her wrist. Pressing on her fist gently until the hold looks proper. Thinking _Her hands are so soft_. Thinking _If I b_ _rought up my other arm around her left shoulder, I would almost be wrapped around her_. Wanting, desperately (her mind tells her it’s pathetic) to be wrapped around her. Looking up to see Sterling staring at the places their hands touch, wondering if it was possible to pluck a memory out of the air and set aside a place for it in her chest so it can be safe forever. Disentangling with murmured apologies. 

If April could look up right at this moment, she would see that Sterling’s face has turned exactly as red as hers. That she is gazing at April with the kind of look children turn towards bright flowers, that someone holds when they see the ocean in all its majesty the very first time. The kind of look uncertain lovers turn towards the object of their affection. Unblinking, bewildered, smitten. 

(But isn’t love a series of fleeting moments we do an excellent job of missing even with our eyes wide open? Every love story is a little bit of a tragedy in itself, when you think of all the times you look away, right at the instant when someone’s laid bare before you, asking you to read them. Years from one, one of them would say _Remember when_ , and the other would say _Yeah but_ , and it would end with the second being called an idiot. Very fondly, though) 

But April doesn’t look up. The story goes on. 

***** 

If anyone asks, Sterling has not been in love with April half of her life. Like one sixth of it, at best. 

Of course, nobody actually asks Sterling because she tends to stammer, drop whatever she’s holding at that moment and go so red that the asker ends up having to apologize to her. 

Blair ends up explaining on her behalf. The answer is typically one of the following — _It’s complicated_ or _It’s a long story_ or, if she’s feeling especially impatient that day, _Yeah, she wants_ _April to pin her up against a wall and kiss her for hours_. The last one gets her a bemused look from the audience and a smack from the girl in question herself. 

The thing is, Sterling isn’t sure she can explain it herself. How do you define a relationship based mostly on a decades long feud between families and multiple sparks and barbs flying back and forth between two people? How do you put _She makes me want to scream at her and_ _grab her by the shirt and pull her towards me with so much force that the momentum knocks her face into mine and she ends up on to_ _p of me and then I accid_ _entally,_ _hopefully_ _get to_ _press kisses onto_ _her sweet, soft lips_ into articulate words? How does she tell them that sometimes she feels like they’re all playing a part for everyone around them, pretending to hate each other just because everyone expects them to, that she doesn’t hate April, hasn’t for a moment and she’s sure that April doesn’t hate her either? It’s impossible to explain that for every time April has done something abhorrent, there’s been a time when she’s caught her off-guard smiling in her direction, seen he r reach up to ruffle Ezequiel’s hair fondly, been witness to her standing up for someone being an asshole to Hannah B. It’s the simplest thing in the world to say _She makes me feel both soft and wild_. It’s also the hardest thing to say. 

So. Yes. It’s complicated. 

“There’s nothing complicated about this, Sterling!” April tells her, sternly. “Sidestep and dodge my blow, then raise up your sword for a counter-attack.” 

It really isn’t. It’s just that she’s very distracted. The sight of April like this, with hair down and flying in the wind, moving fluidly hits her hard like a punch to her gut. 

(And this is another something she’ll take to the grave. Sliding her hands beneath her pants at night just to imagine April looking exactly this fierce, this passionate except in the dark April’s in her bed, on top of her. Touching herself thinking of April’s strong hand wrapped around her skin, her sweet, soft mouth whispering Sterling’s name. Coming imagining April wrapped up in her, around her, inside her) 

She shifts. Everything’s so damn hot. 

“Let’s go again,” April warns, and then she moves. 

It comes to her, then, after hours of practice. She sidesteps easily, holds up her sword, and then, on reflex, grabs April around the waist and turns her so she’s got her sword pressed to her neck and an arm wrapped across April’s body. 

There’s a pause. 

Sterling breathes in April’s shampoo, some mix of coconut and something earthy, and aches, unexpectedly, with the urge to lean down and bury her face into her hair, to kiss her neck. It’s so strong that it makes her feel a little dazed, a little dizzy. Here’s the girl that she’s half in love with already, in her arms. A few more inches. A few more seconds. 

(The narrator would like to point out that there is the minor issue of her not knowing if April likes her back. They know she does, of course, but Sterling isn’t supposed to know. Not for another few plot-points, that is) 

“You did it,” April says. Her voice sounds faint, and not congratulatory in the least to Sterling. 

“I just did what you told me.” 

“I don’t quite remember teaching you this.” 

April chuckles, and this close her, Sterling’s body moves too. She imagines what it must look like to an outsider, to see her holding April like this and finds that she doesn’t care. She wants to do this again. Forever. Hold April like this on the beach while they’re standing in front of the waves, in Yogurtopia while they pick out a flavor to share, out on the street while they walk to school. 

The thought, and the idea that she would probably never get to do it, makes her sad. She steps away. 

And if, if only Sterling could see the look on April’s face as she does that, see the delicate longing in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks; if she could have raised her hand and pressed two fingers onto her neck and felt the rapid hummingbird flutter of her pulse, she would have stepped forward, tipped her head up and kissed her. 

But she doesn’t. Life goes on. Love waits and grows. 

***** 

Sterling keeps interrupting training sessions by making April eat protein bars that she carries in her bag because she knows April has inevitably forgotten to get lunch. April gets Sterling gloves because her hands keep chafing from the handle of the sword. On days they’re too tired to practice more than an hour or two, they sit under a tree and finish their homework together, two girls with their shoulders brushing together, listening to the same song through one earphone. 

(April’s playlist is filled with sad girl music. Sterling hates sad girl music. She adores April’s playlist) 

Sometimes they get a pizza, and eat it together, April picking out all the mushrooms for Sterling to eat, and Sterling accidentally-on-purpose shifting the pepperoni on her side to April’s. There are transactions of soda for orange juice, of hard candy for dark chocolate with coconut filled centers, of minutes stolen and smiles traded. It’s a strange arrangement but it works. 

***** 

Bowser is on a stakeout with Yolanda and Blair when the topic comes up. Blair is passed out on the backseat after a tiring day. They’re on the other side of town, the side of the Stevens’; Bowser only has about half an idea as to where they are or why they’re there and he doesn’t much care, to be honest. What matters is the people he’s with. He’s just along for the ride. 

Yolanda asks him what town he lived in before this, and he stammers out something about the neighboring town a couple of miles away. And then curses himself in the same breath because of course his supposed uncle has probably told people where his nephew was supposed to be arriving from and Yolanda knows that. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says, placing her hand on top of his. “Just, I’m not crazy, right? I’m not crazy for thinking there’s something — different about you, right? Something not—” 

She trails off before she can complete, but Bowser doesn’t need to think too hard about it. _Human. Normal_. Nobody seems to know where he’s from, there’s no paper trail tying him anywhere. Other things that don’t quite add up. She knows he’s— 

Well, he’s something. 

“I’m not used to these questions,” he tells her. 

“What? No acceptable backstory for the other towns you’ve stayed in?” she laughs. 

“Never stayed in one place long enough.” 

“Why here, then?” 

He thinks of Blair and Sterling, of how sometimes you have no idea how you’ve gone without affection before you get bombarded with so much of it that it’s hard to process, to accept that it might be there forever. And he looks at Yolanda, the woman who spins the axis of his universe around her gentle fingers, and thinks of how his existence has now been split into a before and after. The fact that this relatively insignificant human woman is responsible for fracturing his monotony of centuries of years. 

He turns his hand upwards, slides his fingers between hers. If he had a heart, it would be galloping in his chest now. “Don’t you know, already?” 

She squeezes his hand, and something inside of him breaks, just a little. Turns out you don’t need to be completely human to feel pure joy. 

***** 

(That’s enough time without a kick in the face, isn’t it?) 

Here’s the thing about love: it is the biggest kick in the face life delivers. If you’re alright at math, (and really, are you? The narrator is gay and needs help, but that’s a side quest) think of it as a graph. Most events occur as straight lines with minor deviations here and there, and then there’s love: the bastard curve that goes up and down and back and forth until it’s spelled a giant FUCK YOU between the x and y axes. One day you think you’re doing a fine job of concealing your very embarrassing feelings, the next you’ve kissed the girl of your dreams accidentally and she runs away from you, breaking your heart in the process. 

“Another shot, please,” Sterling says, voice muffled from where she’s buried her face onto the table, and Blair sees Bowser roll his eyes affectionately before he gets her another cup of mango flavored yogurt. 

She feels sorry for her sister. More than sorry, she feels confused. April is good at looking stoic and annoyed, but it’s pretty obvious that she has a thing for Sterling. Almost as if she’s carrying a sign around that says: “Whipped for my mortal enemy, Sterling Wesley”. 

There is, however, the question of her insane father. “Maybe she just got—” 

“Blair,” Sterling draws it out, the last of the r’s still echoing around the shop. “Don’t — don’t do that. It’s just empty hope.” 

_And I’ve done that my entire life_ goes unsaid, but Blair hears it, all the same. She does know her sister like she knows her own mind, and beneath the veneer of chirpiness that they both carry, Blair knows lies the very deep fear of losing things and people she never even had in the first place. Of hoping eternally for something that will never happen but not being able to stop herself from thinking _Maybe_. She sounds tired. Tired of having her heart broken multiple times, tired of waiting and hoping, just for everything to come crashing down inevitably. 

(Blair also knows that every afternoon, same time, Sterling still walks to the woods and waits for April to come. Her sister, the hopeless romantic) 

She wraps an arm around Sterling. This she can do. 

***** 

Here is why April runs away: 

Because she is scared. 

Because she is terrified. 

Because the world has done a good job of letting her know that every time she’s happy, it’s probable that in the next couple of days, something or somebody (mostly her) is going to fuck it up and ruin it all. Because she has lost so many people that she has no idea how much of her is still intact to give to somebody else. Or if this somebody else deserves this mess she’s going to hand over to them. 

Nobody deserves that. 

And it takes her a week to break, completely. A week of not talking to Sterling, of hiding behind distant trees just to see Sterling walk into the clearing and wait for someone who isn’t brave enough to come. A week of listening to her father talk about his maniacal plans to take over the town with his sleazy associates. She finally breaks the day before the fight, when she walks into the clearing and almost cries at the way Sterling’s eyes light up. 

“One last practice fight?” 

April fight most duels on autopilot. This one is significant because she is aware of every movement. Parry. Lunge. Hold back so she doesn’t hurt Sterling. And Sterling knows this; she’s getting frustrated at her not even trying to attack. Parry. Parry. Block. 

“What are you doing?” 

And then she does something she’s never done before. Gets down onto her knees and keeps her sword down. She can hear her name being called twice, before Sterling kneels too, leans to look right at her. What are you doing, she asks again. 

“Preparing.” 

“What? To lose to me?” 

_I lost a long time ago_ , April thinks. _Pretty much the first time you smiled at me_. She nods. 

“Why?” 

April moves forward, her heart thudding in her chest. Presses her forehead to Sterling’s. “Do you have to ask? Can you not see it?” 

And then they’re kissing. And maybe it’s the fact that she knows that she’ll have to leave tomorrow, that she might never see Sterling again that makes her want to not stop kissing her, ever. If this is the last time she gets to touch Sterling, to kiss her, she’s going to imprint this memory on every single one of her senses until parting doesn’t hurt as much. 

***** 

And so, this is where they stand. Death stands behind a tree, and watches two girls stand on a cliff, next to a father and a sister, and waits for a call. 

His phone vibrates. His conversation is short. It leads to another one, where he calls one of the participants he’s looking at. Watches Blair pick up her phone, keep it down, pick up her sword, and lunge at John Stevens and accuse him of murdering a woman and starting this entire chain of events. 

(There may also, be a literal kick in the face) 

***** 

The narrator would like to point out, at this juncture that at no point was it explicitly stated that the participants of the duel would, in fact be Sterling and April. They were supposed to be, but plot devices and misdirection is a popular tool and really, were they supposed to tell you that the entire duel was supposed to just be a ploy for the entire town, henchmen of either side included to gather at a certain spot and leave the Stevens’ house undefended? That Blair, Yolanda, Bowser and Sterling were secretly trying to gather enough evidence to prove that the murder was done by John Stevens in an attempt to incite rage against the Wesleys? 

Well, they could have but where would the fun be, then? 

***** 

This is where the narrator leaves us, nearly two weeks after the duel. A boy and a girl are making out in the boy’s car. Death is on a date with the Sheriff of the town, celebrating her big arrest. And a hopeless romantic waits, as she has for the past fourteen days for a girl. 

“How long are you going to keep waiting?” 

Sterling looks up at April, perched on the tree. There may or may not be a hopeful smile involved. 

“You tell me.” 

“Oh, I want to tell you a lot of things. For example, how dare you not tell me any of—” 

“—we didn’t want to worry you—” 

“—oh, fat load of good that did. I just spend a month planning a trip to another city for kicks—” 

Sterling winces. “We can still go there.” 

“Why on Earth would I want to go anywhere with you?” 

“Because you love me,” she says, and there is no time for backing down. Sterling knows April is in love with her. “Because you think I’m cute. Because you, April “Never lost a fight” Stevens was willing to lose to me. You love me.” 

“You — arrogant, insufferable — I hate you.” 

Sterling thinks: _I love you_. 

“I know that.” 

“I might hate you for a long time.” 

Sterling thinks: _I love you. I’ll wait_. 

“I know that too. Do you wanna get down from that tree to hate me face to face?” 

April grumbles. That’s how a love story starts. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna generally scream over random fandoms, on tumblr, hit me up [here](https://thedistrictsleepsalonetonight.tumblr.com/)


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